


Dear Mother and Father

by Hunter_Caprittarius



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Letters, Post-Canon, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 17:44:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16791703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hunter_Caprittarius/pseuds/Hunter_Caprittarius
Summary: A letter from Draco to his parents after the war.





	Dear Mother and Father

Dear Mother, Father, and any nosing bodies who may or may not be concerned,

My name is Draco Malfoy, the first and only son of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa (previously Black) Malfoy. I feel it important to introduce myself in the event that the person or persons reading this letter are not Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Of course, if you, the reader, are neither of the previously mentioned people I don't see why you're reading or why you care. Nevertheless, allow me to continue.

I shall start from the very beginning, or, at least, as far back as I can remember. The first thing I can remember is a rocking horse. It was red and painted with blue flowers by a loving hand, whose hand I cannot recall. I must have been three or four at the time.

Perhaps I've simply become jaded, or maybe I've finally succumbed to the dreadfully heavy nostalgia that always seems to cling to me, but I believe that was the happiest I've ever been. No, I promise I'm not being vain or self-pitying. It's only that, this is the first thing I can remember before the sense of worry, fear even, that stemmed from Father's many projects set in.

I remember dragging that rocking horse through the manor: it my valiant steed and I the dashing mage, more powerful than Merlin and Morgan themselves.

Mother adored the rocking horse, maybe even more than I. I believe this is because in those moments she truly had a child to raise, I was still Draco, not Lucius Junior.

Father hated the horse. He hated hearing its echoing creak while he drafted letters to his kinfellows the Death Eaters. I suspect he would have thrown it in that grand fireplace he was so proud of had Mother not hidden it away.

Many of my memories after that consist of some mixture if the following: Mother and Father (naturally), the dark robed Death Eaters, books, food served on a table much too large for three, lessons in magic, and being upset over something or other. My fondest memories of that time were either of quiet, snow, or my mother.

Yes, yes, very boring, but stick with me for a bit longer.

The summer before my first year of Hogwarts was when things first began to get interesting. It was during that time that Father realized that I, as his heir, was about to be thrust into the public eye. This meant that he spent a routine foir hours every day drilling me in manners, who and who not to associate, the heirarchy of wizards, prevelant families and the like.

From then on I'm sure you know most of the story regardless of who you are. If not, I'm sure you can pick up Harry Potter's biography or watch any of the many many interviews Granger has done over the years. Really, if you've never heard of me you must have bee living in a hole. I was, for lack of better words, Harry Potter's worst enemy after Voldemort.

In the six years of school that I attended I deteriorated faster than I had in eleven years with my father.

Then came the war, an effort that took years in the making and spent years underground, wizards fighting beasts and other wizards as private organizations, before finially rising up to the surface. Then, of course, in a matter of maybe a year it was over.

Of course, for those who'd spent all those years fighting the underground war, it wasn't over. The effort to track down and prosecute all the Death Eaters and their allies was a long and dark one. It was like a witch hunt. In some ways, the hunting was worse than the war itself, only with fewer innocent casualties. Innocents were still killed though, poor souls, accused by suspicious neighbors and condemned by a paranoid jury.

It was similar to an event I read about occurring over in the US: the red scare.

My entire family–those who survived–were arrested. Our punishments varied from death to long term probation. Father was sentenced to death by dememtor, seeing as his trip to Azkaban didn't make enough of an impression. That being said, I suppose I should have only addressed this letter to Mother. Speaking of Mother, she got a six year prison sentence for her involvement, which is phenomenal compared to how many low-level Death Eaters were sentenced for life or to death. That was three years ago, so in another three she'll be free, where upon I'm hoping she'll discover this letter. I went to Azkaban for only two years but received a long probationary period, seven and a half years to be exact.

I'm now a little over a year into my probation and I have to check in with a ministry official every three months.

However, the year I've spent so far has been more harrowing by far than my time at home, Hogwarts, dare I say, even Azkaban. I live a hollow life, I can hardly manage a few sentences to another human when buying groceries.

The words to describe just how empty I feel are escaping me. It's like being constantly hungry, never being able to reach sustenance because there's a glass wall in the way. I'm twitchy and irritable, I sleep at random intervals and never for very long. I've contracted a terrible habit of leaving the house and just wandering. I've gone for days without returning home; I've walked until I meet the end of the line, the boundary that marks where I, as a criminal, can and cannot go.

Sometimes I sleep on the streets like a vagabond. It's a miracle that in this year I have yet to be mugged or beaten in the night.

I'm miserable.

I'm empty.

_I'm cold._

My mother once filled my heart, then I left for school and I filled the space with toxic words and fighting with everyone who even remotely went against one of the values my father taught me. Now there's nothing except the voice of my probation officer saying, "you're still young, you still have a chance to ba part of the amazing wizarding world we're creating!"

Before I continue to this next and extremely crucial portion, I feel there is something I must address. This is not a suicide note. I'm not planning on jumping out of my fifth floor apartment window the moment I put down the pen. This isn't a suicide note, but it is a goodbye.

I've come to realize that I cannot keep on like this. Maybe I'm just weak, but if I stay where I am and keep living like this I'll find myself writing another letter. That letter would be an announcement of death.

My check in with my probation officer was yesterday and I'm turning twenty-two in a few days. So, as an early birthday present to myself I'm running away. I won't state where because the likely hood of ministry officials finding this before my mother is unfortunately very likely.

So, I leave you my parting words:

Mom, I love you more than anything in the world. If it were an option, I'd run straight to you.

Martha Bilkberry (probationary officer), I'd rather not be part of the "amazing new wizarding world", but if it offers you any comfort, I promise not to fraternize with any dark wizards while I'm off. Plus, you'll be able to get back to your actual job at the ministry, you're welcome.

Finially, to all the aurors who'll be undoubtedly pursuing me as I venture, come and get me you whitewashed corporate stooges.

Sincerely,  
Draco Malfoy

**Author's Note:**

> I may be expanding this into a larger story, but I'm not sure.


End file.
